Glances at the world's heros
by Saesama
Summary: Oneshots focusing on Avalanche during their adventures. Next: Forgiveness comes in many strange forms.
1. Games

This is a set of shorts and one shots I decided to group together. Just little near-plotless snips that have little or no place in canon.

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters portrayed with in.

0 0 0

Barret watched his opponent like a hawk. He carefully counted in his head, and had to stop a devious grin. The fool would land right on it. He watched as his opponent moved, hesitated, and sighed in resignation, his silver foot coming down square in the middle of the space-

"Illinois Avenue wit' three houses, Spike." Barret claimed triumphantly. "Tha's seven hund'rit you owe me."

Cloud sighed and began counting out paper money as Tifa patted him on the back and Yuffie reached for the dice. Barret grinned, holding out one hand for his rent. He always did love Monopoly.


	2. Wallace

Probably wrong, but an interesting idea as to how they met.

o o o

Zangan stumbled, falling to one knee, cursing himself as he nearly dropped his burden. He paused, looking down into the soot and tear streaked face of the girl he held. She was so strong, one of the best he'd ever seen, and now she was barely holding on to life. Gritting his teeth, the sensei staggered to his feet again, grimly heading north. The destruction of Nibelheim played in his mind like a bad record, the fire, the heat, the screams, and the horrid, cold laughter of the General, all of it swam through his head. A day and a night and another day had passed since the massacre, and all Zangan cared about was getting to Corel before Tifa died. He knew many shortcuts through the mountains, little-used paths that would cut miles off the journey, but it was still very far. With luck, and a short rest, he could be out of the mountains and into the Corel valley by dawn. Then Corel by midnight again.

Zangan stumbled again, but instead of getting up he settled against a rock, Tifa in his lap. Sighing, he looked up into the starry sky above, hoping against hope that he could find help. Unable to fight exhaustion any longer, he slept.

When he opened his eyes again, the sky above was blue, and a face was peering into his own. Zangan blinked, looking up into ebony eyes surrounded by chocolate skin. "Shee-at, man, what in th' hell happened to ya?" He heard. He blinked, trying to focus on the dark giant before him, noticing the man turn his attention to Tifa. "Hell, both of ya's! C'mon, I can get ya to th' truck and into town. What's yer name, man?"

"Zan...gan." He managed through lips that were cracked from heat and thirst. would be safe there, Tifa was....was being pulled from his grip. With a sudden snarl Zangan tightened his grip on the girl.

"Dammit, y' fool!" The man snapped. "Yer hurt, an' half crazy, too! C'mon, man, I'm tryin' t' help here. Lemme take her, an' you, too."

"Who....who are you?" Zangan muttered, trying to focus as grayness threatened to swamp his sight.

"Barret Wallace." The giant replied. "Will ya let me help y' out?" Zangan nodded, his vision graying again, and he dimly registered the feeling of Tifa leaving his lap. He shook his head clear enough to see Wallace craddling the girl in one arm like a baby. Then he was scooped up and thrown over a wide shoulder. "Don't worry, man." Wallace said, his hand on Zangan's back as he walked. "Well get ya both taken care of, a'ight?" Zangan grunted a reply and passed out again.


	3. Wutaian Pride

I still love Yuffie.

o o o

Sephiroth walked the main street of Wutai's capitol without fear. They needed to see, to know, to believe that he was real, that he, the great enemy, was walking through their city without being challenged. They needed to learn that they were defeated, that Shinra practically owned their asses. He mentally smiled. The proud Wutai, bowed under his foot. All of them glared, from doorways, from windows, from darkened alleys. He caught glimpses of the infamous Wutaian shuriken as they were fingered and stowed away, of fists clentched in rage, of faces clentched in sorrow. He was coming from the world-famous pagoda, where he had laid Shinra's terms to the 'protectors' and heard their responses. Which, of course, had been just what he wanted to hear. Wutai was in Shinra's palm, what more, it was in his palm, and no one dared challenge him for it.

Well, almost no one.

The attacker was fast, little more than a small blur. He moved even faster, catching tiny wrists in his hands. He had his would-be assassin caught and held firm before he realived that it was a young, small girl barely past his waist in height. She shrieked insults and curses at him, far more than any young girl had any right to know, and in as many languages as Sephiroth himself knew - even a select few he didn't. She was twisting vainly against his grip, tugging and screaming, her eyes wide and grey-violet and full of such hate and murderous rage that the general had no doubt that if he let her go, she'd do her damnedest to kill him. He pegged her age at ten, maybe eleven, and after a brief moment, he realized he knew who she was, as well.

Godo's youngest child, his only daughter. He had two older sons, both who had challenged the general as he approached the city, and both who had fallen to him. One had died, the other would never walk again, and would be lucky if he'd ever see again. And now, this spitfire of a girl had decided to challenge him as well, after the battle was already won in his favor.

He smirked down at her as she finally tired herself out against his hands, glaring up at him, her thin chest heaving. "A lady of your station should not know such language, Lady Kisragi." He said smoothly, in perfect Wutaian.

"Do not speak our tongue, demon-bastard!" She shrieked in accented common, her back arching as she fought again to get away from him. "Your filthy feet don't even deserve to touch our poorest soil! I will not hear our language from you!"

"As you wish, m'Lady." He said in common speech, straightening and transfering both of her wrists to one hand. "But you have chosen a bad time to attack me, the war is finished."

"It'll never, ever be finished as long as you live!" She snapped defiantly, holding her head up proudly. "I'll never stop fighting against you!"

Sephiroth knelt to one knee, holding up her arms so they were nose to nose. "Grow up a bit first, girl." He said softly. "Gain the skill you need to hone that fighting spirit. Then maybe you'd be an interesting challenge. But for now you are just a child, and I would hate to deprive your father of his daughter. Go back to your home."

She spat in his face. "I'll be there to watch you die, demon-bastard." She hissed in Wutaian.

Ignoring the spittle running down his cheek, Sephiroth smiled. "The only reason I let you live now," he returned in Wutaian "Is so I can see how close you get to your promise, _m'Lady."_ He let her go, standing again. She glared up at him for a moment, then turned and ran for the cover of a nearby alley. Wiping the spittle from his face, Sephiroth continued his walk, wondering idly if the girl would make good on her promise.


	4. Gunslingers

Inspired by Stephen King's Dark Tower series

o o o

Cloud hurried down the tunnel, Cait Sith on his left, Tifa on his right. The three were tense and silent, knowing only that Sister Ray was ahead, half expecting nearly anything to attack from the tunnel shadows.

"Why, hello, Strife."

Except that. Dear Ramuh, anything but that.

Cloud whipped around. Three figures were materializing from the gloomy shadows. One tall and smooth-headed, one thin and lanky, one small and curved. Turks. Cloud's mako-azure eyes narrowed. "What do you three want?" He asked shortly. Beside him, he heard Cait Sith give a little moan of dispair.

Reno shrugged easily, twirling his 'stick by it's leather loop. "Just to settle old debts, I guess." He said, catching the 'stick in his palm. Cloud tensed, noted Tifa do the same, and readied himself for the first attack.

"Stop."

Everyone involved blinked at the sound of that voice, low and firm, as the owner walked up, standing between Cloud and Tifa. Vincent, his cloak folded over his arm, his headband gone, his hair tied back except for a few bangs that drifted across his eyes. He tossed his cloak aside, stepping forward a bit, clad in only black and sleek gold, his gun remaining holstered at his hip. His eyes took in each blue-suited figure individually. "Turks." He said softly. "Navy blue death in a suit." He took another step, spreading his mismatched hands to either side. "Do you know who I am, Turks?" He asked.

The three looked at each other, their faces unsure. "Yeah," Reno said finally. "We know."

"Who am I?"

"Valentine." Elena said promptly, then bit her lip. "Vin...Vincent Valentine."

Vincent's lip quirked slightly. "_What_ am I, Turks?" He continued.

"A dead man." Rude said flatly. The other two winced in expectation of a gunshot.

"You...you were the first Turk," Reno said quickly. "You, hell, you wrote all the rules."

"Rules for what?" Vincent prompted.

"For our effin' _lives_, man!" Reno blurted. "The rules we live by, every day!"

"The way of life for those that wear the blue suit." Elena said in a half whisper, her eyes never leaving Vincent's face. "The Turks scripture."

Vincent's lip twitched again. "The Turks scripture?" He asked, faint amusement coloring his voice.

"That's what Tseng called it." Rude said, nodding once.

"Tseng bloody worshipped you, man." Reno added almost reverently.

_And made them worship him, too._ Cloud thought, a chill running down his spine as he watched the ensuing scene. He had known that Vincent was once a Turk, but the first Turk? The one who had made the rules every Turk would follow? The three were looking at Vincent as if Odin himself were speaking to them. _Or the way I used to look at Sephiroth,_ Cloud thought grimly.

"The Turks scripture." Vincent said, musingly, then shook his head slowly. "You know me." He said, his eyes pinning each of them, marking them, knowing them. "You know who I am, what I am. Now, I ask you; do you accept me for what I am?"

The three looked at each other again, for a long moment. "Yeah," Reno said again. "We accept you."

"For what?"

They all stood a bit straighter, a bit prouder. "For our leader, sir." Rude said firmly. "The leader of the Turks."

There was a moment of silence, counterpointed by the faint sound of dripping water, then Vincent chuckled softly, closing his eyes. He looked up at them, his eyes fierce and proud. "Rude, Reno, Elena." He said, his voice commanding and firm. "For the time being, I will be unable to lead directly, but until the time when I can join you again, you will treat a Mr. Reeve Brannon's orders as if they were my own, understand?" The Turks nodded even as Cait Sith jumped, shocked. Vincent turned towards the stuffed cat, one brow raised. "I assume that your......other half, is being kept somewhere, locked up?"

Cait nodded, his ears lying back. "Up in the cellblock near, near the labs." He said uneasily.

Vincent looked back at the Turks. "I believe you three know where this is." They nodded again. "Go there, release Reeve, and follow his orders until our business with Sephiroth is finished. Afterwards, I will find you again and take up the position of leader. Dismissed."

"Yes, sir!" The Turks chorused smartly, saluting. A moment later they had disappeared off into the shadows again.


	5. Teioh

Teioh just annoys me in general.

o o o

Cloud's shoulders slumped as he walked from the track, leading bright yellow Xiii by her reins. Cid slapped the younger man on the back sympathetically. "C'mon, Spike," He said "Can't win 'em all, y'know."

Cloud shook his head and made a half-hearted attempt at a smile. "Yeah, I know." He said ruefully. "I guess I kinda got used to first place." He looked back over his shoulder where the first place winner was celebrating smugly. "That guy, he just came out of nowhere and left me in the dust."

Cid snorted as the two blonds walked over to where Vincent was waiting near the yellow bird's stable. "Yeah, I saw that. Jus' a black blur. I didn't know they made that Chocobo-coloring spray shit in black."

"They don't."

The blonds turned. The winner of the race, Teioh, stood watching them from behind dark glasses, an arrogant smirk on his face. "None of my birds wear that disgusting spray." He said loftily. "They are all pure-bred black Chocobo's, which my family has raised for generations." He looked down his nose at Xiii, snorting and apparently going for a Mr. Suave look with that ridiculous hat of his. "They are the only black chocobo's on the Planet and are our pride. Obviously this .....bird of yours is a wild thing, unsuited for real racing." He looked over his glasses. "I suggest you have a lot to learn about Chocobo's."

"And I suggest you have a lot to learn about manners." Said a quiet voice at Cloud's shoulder. He turned to find Vincent standing there, glaring at Teioh. The smaller man glanced at the ex-Turk apprehensivly before turning and stalking away, his nose in the air. Vincent shook his head in disgust, scratching at Xiii's neck before taking the reins from Cloud. "Idiot." He muttered, leading the bird to her stable.

"Effin' arrogant bastard is more like it." Cid grumbled, picking up a brush to rub down the tired bird. "The nerve of him, saying that shit. Jus' 'cause she _was_ wild don't mean she isn't suited to race."

Cloud slid the saddle from Xiii's back, hanging it on a hook. "She's a great racer, ain't you girl?" He said, scratching her head. The bird warked happily, nibbling on Cloud's hair. He grinned, looking over her back at the pilot. "Don't worry, Cid." He said confidently. "Next time we'll kick his ass to the moon."

"If I don't beat him into pulp for insulting my bird first." Cid muttered.

o o o

Green Wolfe tossed his head, eager to be going as his blue mate, Yumiko, nuzzled eagerly at Tifa's hand. She scratched the bird back, watching Barret and Cid lead their other two birds out to the Highwind. Wolfe warked in idignation, upset at being left behind and Yuffie scratched his back soothingly. "D'you think those two can get to the S class?" The ninja asked, jerking her head at the departing birds.

Tifa shrugged, feeding Yumiko a bit of greens. "I hope so. They want to get enough Gold Points to spend all day in the Battle Square. Cloud wants to go for the top prize."

"Good luck." Yuffie said. "I wonder if that arrogant bastard Cloud told us about will be back."

Tifa shrugged again. "Better hope Cid don't get ahold of him if he is." She replied.

o o o

Cid led the bird into a stable, grinning. Somehow or other, Cait Sith had shown up with professional-looking Chocobo blankets that covered the entire bird and were emblazoned with large A's, for Avalanche he had said. The covers were usually used to keep the birds from prying eyes if the jockey was going to display some bizzare pattern in it's color spray. They were quite snazzy looking, and in Cid's opinion, did their job perfectly, hiding their crowning Chocobo achievement from the other jockeys until they were ready to reveal him. The Chocobo he was leading turned to nuzzle against his shoulder and he scratched it's beak affectionately.

"Not another wild one, I hope?"

Cid's good mood evaporated at the sound of the very unwelcome voice. Turning, he found Teioh standing there, his arms crossed, looking at the blanket-covered Chocobo with high disdain. Resisting the urge to punch that arrogant face in, Cid instead smiled grimly. "Actually," He said, raising his voice loud enough for most of the other jockey's to hear. "We bred this one ourselves. Teioh, meet Enrico." With a flourish, he pulled the blanket away, revealing a Chocobo with feathers so glossy black they shone almost irridescent under the lights. The bird reared slightly, cawing, his wings fluttering.

"No spray, either." Cloud said, walking up and grinning. "Not for our birds."

Teioh's jaw dropped a centimeter, then snapped back up. "You lie." He said flatly. "No black Chocobo's have been born outside of my family's farm for generations."

"It is very much true." Vincent said from the next stable, where he was settling their other bird. "Born from a natural green and a natural blue, that is a pure-bred black Chocobo."

Teioh looked furious. "Blue's and green's do not exist, unless they're sprayed." He snapped, ignoring the jockey's crowding around them, watching the confrontation. "Blacks are born from blacks, and you must've stolen him from our farm."

Vincent stepped out of the stable, red eyes gleaming. "We aren't thieves, you asshole." Cid growled. "We bred them ourselves, the blue, the green, this black, and that one there."

"And what is that one?" Teioh asked sarcastically, motioning to the still-covered bird. "A pure-bred red one?"

Cloud snorted. "No, idiot." He said. "This one is gold." He pulled away the blanket, revealing the brilliant, golden feathers of Alex, who tossed his head and warked happily, his clawed feet scratching at the ground. Several of the other Jockey's crowded around, oohing and ahing over the bird, who looked around, proud of the attention.

"That is no gold!" Teioh sputtered. "That's a common yellow with a metallic sheen! Who ever heard of a gold Chocobo outside of fairytales? I refuse to believe it! And I refuse to believe this black is real, either! You are a bunch of lying jackasses!"

Cid pointed at golden Alex. "How much do you want to bet," He said angrily. "That that gold can kick the ever-loving ass of your black? One hundred? Two?"

"Five hundred gil." Teioh said flatly. "Gold Chocobo's are legends for little kids and fools. They do not exist."

"Fine." Cloud said. "Five hundred gil, witnesses by everyone here, that our gold can beat your black. Deal?"

"Deal." Teioh said firmly, walking away, his nose in the air.

Cloud sighed, running his hand along Enrico's neck. Cid glared at Teioh's back for a long moment, then turned to the shorter blond. "Let me race him, Cloud." He said. "I want to see the sonuvabitches face when Alex leaves him in the dust."

Cloud raised a brow and looked over and Vincent, who shrugged. "Fine. But if you loose, I'm taking it out of your hide."

Cid grinned wickedly. "Don't worry about me. First place, here I come."

o o o

Alex shifted nervously, and Cid leaned forward in his saddle to stroke the young bird's neck. Sitting back again, he caught Teioh looking at him, his own black as still as a rock beneath him. Cid grinned, saluting the hatted rider with two fingers. Teioh glared at him a moment then faced forward, his face stony. Cid settled into the saddle, waiting for the starting buzzer. The Chocobo's to either side of him tensed, waited-

The buzzer sounded and they were off, racing down the track like buckshot from a shotgun. For a moment, Cid held Alex back, darting among the pack, then he saw Teioh shoot ahead like a black meteorite, felt Alex's frustration at not being allowed to run full-out and decided to hell with it, loosing up on the reins.

He had known that Alex was fast, but to be sitting on the bird's back as he let all out was a rush akin to flying the Bronco. The digital imaging of the track, designed to throw the birds off, was little more than a colored blur as they raced forward, and he caught a small, ultimately satisfying glimpse of Teioh's face, wide in shock, as they passed. The race was over before he realized it, Alex crowing in victory, Cloud's voice raised in a happy shout over the cheers, and Teioh coming in a definate second. Cid grinned, sliding down from Alex's back, and looked at the shorter rider. "I suggest," He said, as Cloud and Vincent hurried down to meet him. "You have a lot to learn about Chocobo's."

o o o

The color-spray is my answer as to why the other jockey's have pink and purple and whatnot colored chocobo's in the game. And if anyone can tell me the theme behind their bird's names, they get a cookie. Missy, you don't count, you already know.


	6. Notebook

This one just makes me happy.

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Cid frowned at his notebook, frowned at the clock, frowned at his notebook again, turned it upside down to get a different view, then settled it on his knee to begin sketching again. The notebook, 'Happy birthday, O' brother of mine' scrawled across the front, was a gift from Shera. Each page was half lined, half blank, and had been purchased for the sole purpose of him carrying it everywhere during the Rocket Project to write down his thoughts and ideas. It was often shoved into the large knee pocket of his cargo pants, but for the day he had to carry it around, since cargo pants really didn't go well for meetings with President Shinra. Which would explain why he was wearing a neat dress shirt. And a tie. And why his face was shaved neatly. And why he carried his precious, half-filled notebook on a 'professional-looking' clipboard.

Though it didn't explain why Palmer had the nerve to get him face to face with the almighty Prez for a full time of _five minutes_ then kick him out to the waiting room while they yapped for....Cid looked up at the clock again. Well over an hour, now. Oh well, at least he had his notebook. He flipped it back over the right way and continued scratching out lines that slowly formed into a sketch of the secondary thruster for Shinra No. 14, the prototype rocket being built right at that moment, off on another contienent, in a small village just north of the Nible mountains. He scribbled down a few notes, reminding himself to check both the thruster and his laundry when he got back, and bent over the page again, adding in the feul supply line. He grinned in a recent memory of teasing Shera that he could draw perfectly straight lines free-hand and she couldn't and the resulting wet-teabag fight they'd had. Ah, the wonders and joys of being an annoying older brother.

Engrossed in both work and memory, Cid barely noted someone stepping up to the secretary's desk and speaking with the young woman. He dimly registered the secretary, in a flustered voice, telling the person that the good President was in a meeting and that he'd have to wait. A deep voice answered her and Cid glimpsed heavy black boots passing in front of him above the edge of his notebook. He turned the pad sideways and continued to sketch even as the person sat in the next plush armchair down. Not looking up, Cid motioned at a small table full of refreshments. "The cookies're pretty good," He said, "Though I warn you about the coffee. Tastes like paint thinner."

"Thank you for the warning, sir."

Cid glanced up at the sound of the person's voice, and had to keep his jaw from unhinging. The man in the next armchair was none other that the great White General himself, Sephiroth. The man lounged easily into the chair, watching Cid with eyes like materia. Cid blinked at him for a few moments, wondered if he was dreaming, shrugged and went back to his notebook. "No problem." He said. "I'm really not in the mood to see someone pass out from coffee-poisoning today."

Sephiroth lifted a brow. "It sounds as if you do not enjoy coffee." He said idly.

Cid snorted. "Hate the stuff. Tea for me, man. The occasional shot of whiskey isn't bad, but I go for the natural when I can get it." The entire time, he kept his eyes on his notebook and his hands busy. It was easier to talk to the man when he didn't have to look at him and think about every rumor he'd heard about the general.

"Your name is Highwind, is it not?"

Cid blinked in utter confusion, looking up at Sephiroth. "Yeah....it is." He said after a moment.

Sephiroth's lips curved into something like a smile. "I've seen you around." He said. "You are working with Palmer on the Space Program, are you not?" Cid nodded. "Interesting. You truly are trying to get to space?"

"Yeah, we are." Cid shrugged. "The final frontier, you know. I want to know what it's like."

Sephiroth looked at him for a moment, then down at Cid's notebook on it's temproary clipboard. "Trade secrets?" he asked.

Cid looked down at the notebook, a smile sliding across his face. "Nah," He said, sitting back properly into the chair. "Not secrets, anyway. My idea pad, reminder, and scratch paper all together." He unclipped it from the board and held it up. "I'd be lost without it, you know?"

"May I see it?" Cid hesitated a second, then handed the book over to the General. Sephiroth flipped through it for a long moment, pausing occasionally to read the notes scrawled across the pages, his lips sometimes quirking into a half smile or a concentrated frown. He came to the page Cid had been working on, looking thoughtful. "Fascinating." He said, handing it back. He glanced at the door to the President's office, then stood, crossing the room to the refreshment table and selecting a cookie off the tray. He popped the tiny thing in his mouth, then looked back at Cid as the door opened and Palmer waddled out. "You were right, these are good." he said calmly, ignoring Palmer completely. "Good luck on your project, Captain Highwind. I hope you achieve both the stars and your laundry." he turned and walked into the President's office, the door swinging shut behind him.

Palmer looked at Cid in complete confusion. Cid just shrugged, standing and clipping his notebook on his board again.


	7. Family Matters

Don't tell me this never crossed your mind.

o o o

The little village on the road to Mideel was unremarkable, at first. Small houses, the ones on the outskirts abandoned, and a few dusty stores greeted the three as they entered, and they all agreed that stopping was unnecessary. Well, Cid and Tifa agreed, Vincent merely shrugged. No one accosted the three as they walked, rather quickly, along the main road. Rumor of Cloud sped them along, and Meteor above made them uneasy. They barely glanced around as they passed through the village.

Cid dropped the butt of his cigarette to the ground, and from habit, glanced back at the other two. Tifa was right behind him, which was all right, but Vincent had stopped in the middle of the road, looking up at one of the abandoned houses that ringed the village. "Val?" The pilot called, stopping. Tifa looked at him with a frown, then looked back at the gunman. "Val, what is it?" Cid continued, doubling back to his friend, absently lighting another cigarette. Vincent ignored him, his eyes on the dusty house, then walked up the stairs. "Valentine!" Cid protested. "We've gotta go, man!"

Vincent still ignored him and casually dug his claw into the boards barring the door, then ripped them off. When the door was free he walked inside, leaving his companions in the road. Tifa and Cid looked at each other, then hurried after the gunman.

They found him standing in a dusty, dim living room. Furniture and decor still sat where they had been left, as if the family who lived there had left on vacation and never came back. Vincent was standing before the elaborate fireplace, looking up at a dozen dusted-over photographs on the wall above. "Valentine?" Cid asked, his voice much softer than it had been in the road. "What is it, man?" Vincent didn't answer, but closed his eyes, seeming to struggle with himself, not against his demons as they had all seen before, but against old memory and old grief. The other two looked at each other again, then carefully each put a hand to the gunman's shoulders, offering what support and comfort he'd take. "C'mon, Vince." Cid said. "What's eating you?"

Vincent looked at them both for long moments, then sighed, turning his eyes back up to the obscured pictures. "Not Vincent." He said finally, a harsh whisper.

"What?" Cid asked, confused.

Vincent shook his head slowly. "My name....my real name...it's not Vincent Valentine." He said quietly. "My mother named me Vitu." Cid noticed Tifa jump slightly, but Vincent didn't, his eyes on the pictures. "I...changed it, to protect my family, when I joined the Turks." A half-smile curved his lips, two parts amused, one part nostalgic. "And, I admit, to give myself a bit more 'flair'. I...lived here, my entire young life, until I was eighteen and went to Midgar." He reached up to the largest picture, the one in the middle, and smudged away some of the dust with his thumb, revealing a faded image of himself at seventeen, his hair in a short, neat bob and his eyes rich wine instead of glowing ruby, but it was undeniably Vincent, or Vitu it seemed. The picture was a family portrait, it seemed, but he didn't disturb any of the rest of the dust, keeping his family's faces hidden.

"My...my father was from here, from Mideel." He continued softly. "Every kin of his blood carried eyes like wine, our birthmark as it was, but my mother was Wutaian. We were...striking, my siblings and I, and some called us angels and some demons, and we were so different and so proud that we had few friends....and many admirers. We all eventually moved to Midgar, where beauty was the norm, and pride wouldn't get us fired or scorned or shame our parents. But I had very little contact with them...to protect them......."

"But one more than the rest, right?" Both men turned in surprise to Tifa, who blushed slightly but continued. "You loved them all, all four of your siblings, but you loved your little sister the most, right? That's why you rarely saw her, ever." Vincent frowned. He had never mentioned the number of siblings he had, or even that he had a sister. Tifa turned back to the picture, mimicing Vincent and wiping away the dust over each face, knowing exactly where each one lay. Vincent stared hard as her thumb unearthed his parents, each one of his brothers, and last, his sister, only twelve when the picture was taken. Each child in the picture had the same rich ebony hair as their mother, and the same wine eyes as their father. The younger Vincent had his arm around his sister's shoulders and the girl was smiling brightly at the camera.

Tifa smiled sadly, looking back at Vincent. "Vitu Fairtai." She said softly. "A long-lost, much-loved uncle Eva Fairtai told me about so often. That my mother told me about." She touched the picture frame gently. "I....my mother had the same picutre in the front room. She'd get it down, sometimes, and tell me about my uncles. Uncle Jas, who was a merchant in Midgar..... Uncle Averl and Uncle Thans, one year apart but so much like twins, who made guns in Corel....and Uncle Vitu, who had joined the Shinra and had disappeared before I was born, who she missed dearly, who had been her favorite brother." Vincent's eyes had darkened with old memory, hearing the names of his brothers whom he hadn't seen in decades. Tifa ducked her head, her voice wavering slightly. "She moved to Nibleheim with my father. She died, when I was a kid still, some sickness I never learned the name of, that took her in two weeks and never gave her a chance to fight back. My...your brothers are still alive, all in Midgar. I lived with Uncle Jas and his wife for a while, after Nibelheim was burned, before I joined up with Avalanche." She looked at the floor, aware of both pairs of eyes on her, one bright and confused, one dark and thoughtful.

Vincent closed his eyes, exhaling slowly. "Lock-,Tifa." He said quietly. "If we survive this madness, I would greatly appreciate it if you led me back to my family." Tifa nodded, not trusting herself to speak without crying, and Vincent turned and walked out the door.


	8. Canyon Pride

Dedicated to ChocoChick87, who wanted something about Nanaki and the war with the Gi. This is what I came up with.

o o o

Shella padded across the rocks, velveted paws silent on stone. Her keen yellow eyes searched, hunted- there. Sitting on the cliff, looking out over the darkness of the Canyon and the distant fires of the Gi. She leapt up the rocks, a fleeting red-brown ghost in the dark, and approached her mate.

Even with his attentions on the distant fires, Seto wasn't one to be caught off guard. He turned, relaxing when he saw Shella approaching. "You should be with Nanaki." He growled, turning his eyes back to the Gi camps.

"And you should be asleep." Shella replied, sitting beside him. "Staring at them will not make them leave, Seto. Come back with me."

Seto glared at her for a moment. "I cannot sleep while they sit there, defying the Canyon into warfare, taunting us with every new fire and every arrows' gleam. They will attack, and it will be soon, and it will be hard. I will be here when it happens."

Shella sighed. "Seto, this is foolishness. You have not eaten properly in weeks, and you have not slept by my side since the Gi started their approach and this was months ago! Come, the Gi will not attack tonight. Hunt with me, and come sleep beside me and your son. He misses you as much as I."

Seto snorted. "Nanaki is a cub still. He misses only the warmth of another to snuggle between."

"He misses _you._" Shella emphasized softly. "Cub or not, he is old enough to know and miss his father. He will not be so small forever, would you miss your last cub's infancy?"

Seto tensed, and Shella knew that she had struck a blow close to home. "How many, Shella?" Seto asked, his voice rough with grief. "How many of our kind are left in the Canyon? Nine? Ten including my son? How many were lost to the Gi, hunted for their fur?" His body shook, holding back their howling equivalent of a sob. "How many of my cubs cover their shoulders and warm their beds? How many have left the Canyon under the cover of night and may never return to their rightful home? How many will die when the Gi filth attacks?" His whole body quivered in grief and rage, his claws extending and digging gouges in the stone beneath his feet.

Shella didn't answer immediately, only shifted so she was closer to her mate, her muzzle dropping to his shoulder, rock-hard beneath her jaw. "If I knew the answers, cub," She said softly, using her own pet name for him. "If I knew, I would say, but none but the gods know. Mayhap, when you reach the clearing at the end of the path, they will tell you, but not before. Before, you should eat and sleep and enjoy your last son while he is around."

Seto didn't answer, but Shella felt some of that tenseness creep from his body. She sat there, shifting until his back pressed against her stomach, warm and large with milk, even four years after Nanaki's birth. Seto sighed, relaxing against her, comforted by her mother's warmth. "I hate that name, you realize." He murmured. Shella laughed softly. She was a century and a half his elder, the first female of the Canyon, and he had won the right to leader when he won her in a fierce fight against her other suitors. For two hundred years they had led the Canyon together, raising their children among the rust-colored stones. War, famine, flood, and plague had all come and gone, but never had they faced such a dire situation, never had the number of their people dropped so low. Nanaki was the last cub born to the Canyon in the last fifty years, and some humans were already saying that he'd be the last ever, that the age of the Vy had passed, and the age of humans had risen.

Seto shifted, tense again, more nervous energy than the rage he'd held before, and Shella realized that whatever he said next, she wasn't going to like. She waited, wondering what he was going to say, and was shocked to hear "You two should leave, Shella."

Shella froze in shock, and Seto hurried on to explain. "You should take Nanaki and go north until this is over. Some of our kind went there months ago, you should be safe there. Nanaki is strong enough to make the trip, and if you get to the Nibel mount-" Having heard enough, Shella clouted him in the head with one heavy paw. Seto, caught off guard, fell sideways.

An instant later they were facing each other, teeth bared, hackles raised. "I will not leave." Shella snarled. "The canyon is mine, and YOU are mine, and I will not just sit aside and let the Gi attack without tasting their blood. the others may leave if they wish, but I will stay until my death or victory, or why am I the first female?"

Seto growled in the back of his throat. "The Canyon is unsafe for a mother with a cub still on the tit." He said. "Bugenhagen and I have talked it over, and he has promised to help you leave."

"Bugenhagen means well," Shella said. "But he is still young and rash. Humans are set in their minds, that a man should protect and a woman should hide. But we are not human, we are Vy, and I can fight just as well as you can, nursing or not. I will not leave, no matter what."

They glared at each other for a long moment, then Seto dropped his eyes, consenting defeat. "If nothing I say can stop you, so be it." He growled. He turned from her, again watching the Gi fires, his head and shoulders drooping slightly.

Shella felt her heart knife sideways. She hated this, seeing him so vulnerable and down spirited. She sat beside him again, briefly nuzzling where she had struck him earlier. "Come, cub." She purred gently. "Come, hunt and sleep. We need our rest, so that we may protect our home." Seto turned towards her, green-gold eyes gleaming in the dark, and let out a sigh. But when Shella turned back to the Canyon, Seto followed her to the hunt.


	9. Jail Time

Long chapter, this time.

o o o

Gibbons read the reports with a frown. Six members of Avalanche had been captured off of the Highwind, five humans and the last known member of the great Canyon cats. Two of the humans, Wallace and Lockheart, were in the personal care of Rufus Shinra, the other three and the cat locked in the Junon jail. Of the humans, Strife and Gainsborough, and the mechanical Cait Sith, there was no sign. It was confirmed that the cyborg had boarded the Highwind, but no sign of it had been seen since. Four of the humans and the cat had fought capture fiercely, resulting in five deaths and numerous injuries to Shinra staff, but Lockheart had been unconscious upon arrival. The man's frown deepened. While Highwind, Kisragi and the cat, Nanaki, were secure in standard holding cells without additional restraint, Valentine had nearly escaped several times, forcing the guards to use additional restraints. Like chains, strong tranquilizers, and a straitjacket. Gibbons scowled. Such measures should not be necessary for one man, especially not tranqs of the strength listed here, which were strong enough to drop a charging chimera in it's tracks. Maybe someone had gotten the cat and the man mixed up, somehow. Standing from his desk, he left his office for the jail.

The first thing he saw, upon arrival, was a cluster of workmen gathered around a cell. Approaching, he saw the bars of the cell had been twisted and warped, as if a giant had tried to force them open. Claw marks slashed across parts of the bars, and the floor of the cell in general was scorched black. The men snapped smartly to attention as they noticed him, and Gibbons turned to the lieutenant in charge. "I assume the cat did this?" He asked calmly.

"Sir, no sir." The other man replied, saluting nervously. "The cat has been little enough trouble, in comparison. Sure, he snarls whenever we get too close, and Markey nearly got his hand bitten off, but no, he's been fine enough. It was Valentine, sir, who did this."

Gibbons scowled again. "How could one man do that?" He spat, pointing at the warped bars.

The lieutenant, his name tag proclaiming him to be named Avers, was sweating visibly. "I don't right know, sir." He said truthfully. "I wasn't on duty when it happened, sir. But the men say that he turned into a monster, sir. All I know is that I wouldn't go into his cell if you paid me, sir. None of us will, sir"

Gibbons snorted in disgust and walked past the man and past the workers struggling to get the warped bars off of the cell. Further down, he encountered the prisoners. Highwind first on the left, sitting on the cell floor against the wall, his head tipped back and his eyes closed, apparently asleep. Then Kisragi on the right, laying on her cot and staring listlessly at the ceiling, barely glancing at him as he passed. Then the cat on the left, restlessly prowling it's cell, growling low in it's throat when it caught him looking at it. And in the last cell on the left, Valentine, and Gibbons stopped short when he saw the man. A heavy straitjacket trapped his arms to his chest and a chain was looped around his body and shoulders, as if the captor hadn't thought the canvas dinner jacket enough. Apparently, even _this_ wasn't enough, because they had chained Valentine up to hang from the ceiling. By his feet. His black hair nearly swept the floor as he slowly swung back and forth. Gibbons felt a small niggling of worry in the back of his mind. If what Avers had shown was any indication, the man hadn't been touched in three days, since when the report stated the extra measures had been taken. If that was the case, then Valentine's face should be as red as a whore's lips from the blood rushing to his head. But his skin was pale and smooth, as if he'd just flipped himself upside down for a quick moment, and his blood hadn't had time to collect. Suddenly, the man's eyes flashed open, as red as his face _should_ have been. Gibbons fought the urge to swallow nervously as those eyes raked his body, feeling absurdly like a piece of meat being eyed by a predator.

Valentine snorted, disgust and amusement filtering into his eyes. "Guter Gott in Himmel oben," He said calmly, as if he hadn't been hanging by his ankles for three days. "Sie sind hässlicher jedes Mal." Gibbons frowned. He didn't know the language the man spoke, although he thought it might be old Mideelic.

A snort of laughter from the cell over caught his attention. He turned towards Highwind, who still sat on the cell floor. "What did he say?" Gibbons snapped.

Highwind opened one lazy eye to peer at him, smirking. "Well, hello to you, too." He answered. "He said, roughly, 'they keep getting uglier.' I just hope they don't get any uglier than you, Tinkerbell."

Laughter from behind him alerted Gibbons to the Wutaian girl and the cat, both who were watching with interest. He turned back to Valentine, who was watching him with a lazy smile that made him think of a tiger at rest. He cleared his throat, summoning his best stern expression. "I assume you are uncomfortable, no?" He asked the hanging man, trying to quash the feeling of being prey. "If you tell me what I wish to know, I will see to it that you are at least turned upright."

"Hmm, interesting." Valentine replied with a strong accent. "I speak, und you let me down. Most intriguing."

"Don't give into 'em, Val." Highwind called over lazily, his eyes closed again. "Don't let 'em break you, man."

"Highvind, mein Freund," Vincent replied. "Macht mir einen Gefallen und schließt die Hölle auf." Gibbons had no idea what this meant, except that it probably wasn't 'Happy Birthday', although it made Cid laugh again. The man looked back up at him, his red eyes thoughtful. "Vat do you vish to know, mein Freund?"

"The exact locations," Gibbons said firmly. "Of Strife, Gainsborough, and Cait Sith."

Instantly he could feel the change in all of them, from lazy humor to...what? Grief? Rage? Or some unholy combination of both? Valentine stared up at him, eyes smoldering. "Cait, we do not know." He said flatly, his accent dropping in his anger and Gibbons thought of the Turks, sleek and deadly. "Strife, we do not know, except that he was in ze crater when we left." Dimly, Gibbons was aware of Highwind at his cell door, watching intently, of the eyes of Kisragi and the cat and the workers boring into them, but the main focus of his attention was Valentine's eyes, which were glowing with a deep, unnatural glow that was far brighter and far beyond any Soldier mako eyes. "But Aerith," He said, his voice barely above a whisper, and pulsing with rage. "Aerith ist dead and deep, beyond the filthy hands of you bastards." Gibbons stared as if hypnotized, realizing far too late that Valentine's pupils were no longer round, but slit. "She ist beyond you all as you are now, but perhaps I can send you closer." He suddenly curled up on himself, until his head was pulled up near his knees, a hoarse sound of pain and rage escaping his throat. Gibbons stumbled back as the canvas swathed body writhed and humped, lenghtening and stretching, the buckles holding down his arms snapping like rubberbands and the thick hair _shrinking_, as if growing backwards. Suddenly his hands were free, no longer hands but huge, misshapen claws, and the remaining hair on his head turned scarlet as he reached up, slicing through the shackles around his ankles like knives through butter. He dropped to the floor, twisting in midair like a cat to land on all fours, the chains and the remains of the straightjacket slithering off over his head, which was no longer anything remotely human. Only the eyes remained the same, gleaming hungrily as the wolf-creature threw back it's head, howling at the ceiling.

It leapt forward, coming up on it's hind legs and grabbing the cell bars in it's forepaws. With so little effort it was eerie it pulled the bars apart, stepping through it's inpromptu doorway. Gibbons was backed against the bars of Kisragi's cell, his eyes and mouth wide O's of shock and terror. He stared at the creature towering above him, not noticing when his bladder let go, nor when his knees collapsed, until the creature reached out and stopped him from falling by wrapping a huge paw around his neck. It lifted him off the ground, bringing him close to it, and Gibbons could smell it's breath on his face, like air from a crypt, then the hand tightened and the world went black.

Yuffie grimaced slightly as Galian tossed the man it held back into Vincent's cell and heard his skull crack off the far wall. A starburst of blood marred the metal as the corpse slid to the floor. She stepped back quickly as Galian turned it's baleful red eyes on her, a low growl working up it's throat. Suddenly, a scream from one of the workers caught it's attention. The workers were running and screaming, trying to get out of the jail proper, but were so busy looking back to see if Galian was following them that the ones in back didn't realize they were crushing the ones in front against the door, which swung inwards. It's prey effectivly trapped, Galian snarled and leapt down the hall, turning the place into a bloodbath.

Cid turned his face from the spray of blood and the sounds of screams. He caught sight of Yuffie across the aisle, shaking and curled away from the mess, her hand over her mouth. Nanaki watched Galian calmly. A splintery crack shot through the air, then Galian's roars were moving away, leaving silence. "He's gone." Nanaki said. "He tore the door off it's hinges and left." He paused for a moment. "None of them live."

Yuffie looked at the blood and dismembered bodies that littered the jail house and shuddered. "I hate it when he does that." She said dully.

"Hell, _he_ hates it when he does that." Cid replied, examining the cell-door lock in hopes of picking it somehow. "But ya gotta do what ya gotta- fuck!" He kicked the door sourly, sitting on his cot. "Lousy piece of shit." He muttered.

Nanaki's head snapped up, towards the hole Galian had made for itself. "Someone's coming." He said shortly. Cid stood up again, and Yuffie tensed.

Cait Sith's moogle-doll hopped through the door, Cait himself riding high atop a pile of cloth and leather and metal the doll carried. The toy cat wrinkled it's nose at the mess it traveled through, then hopped down onto a nearby desk. A bit of searching turned up a keycard and he quickly scampered down the cellblock aisle. "Sorry it took me so long, guys." He said, handing the keycard up to Cid. "I had to lay low, and wait for a diversion to get in here." He looked over his shoulder. "I guess Vince made a diversion, huh?"

Cid swiped the card through the lock and grinned as it swung open. "Yeah, as best he could." He replied, tossing Yuffie the card and digging through the moogle's load for his spear. "Didn't run into him, didja?"

Cait shook his head as Yuffie unlocked herself and Nanaki. "Heard him, didn't see him. They kept all your guy's stuff down the hall, Barret and Tifa, too. Speaking of, Rufus Shinra is going to execute them day after tomorrow."

"No, he von't." Replied a voice. Vincent calmly reached over Cid's shoulder to retrieve his holster and cloak from the moogle. "Your ship is vaiting for you on ze upper level, Highvind." He continued, checking his gun's materia. "I take it zat it ist our escape route?"

"Damn straight." Cid replied. "Lead the way, Cait." Cait jumped back onto his moogle and bounced out, followed closely by Nanaki and Yuffie. Vincent moved to follow, but Cid stopped him with a hand to his shoulder. "Val? You all right?" He asked.

Vincent nodded shortly. "I am fine, let us continue." He replied. _Which means, in Vin-speak, 'No, but I'm not transforming anytime in the next five minutes so don't waste your time',_ Cid thought. He let the subject drop and followed the gunman out of the impromptu door.

o o o

Eh, I always liked the idea of Vincent speaking German. Lemme know if the translations are wonky, my classes did little to help me, and the translator I use isn't the best.

Glossary:

Guter Gott in Himmel oben, Sie sind hässlicher jedes Mal. - Good God in Heaven above, they're uglier every time.

Highvind, mein Freund, Macht mir einen Gefallen und schließt die Hölle auf. - Highwind, my friend, do me a favor and shut the hell up.


	10. Non Existant Camerade

"Lady Kisragi, you have a package."

The young woman, dressed in the traditional ornate robes of a high-ranking Wutaian Lady, sighed. It was always 'Lady Kisragi' or occasionally 'Lady Yufaline'. No one had called her Yuffie in over a year, it wasn't fitting a woman of her rank. And no one had called her a brat in even longer.

What was she thinking? No one had ever called her a brat, right? Wasn't that how it was supposed to be?

She didn't want it to be that way. According to everyone, Avalanche ceased to exist when the Sector Seven plate fell, with Barett Wallace as the only survivor. They had all agreed that it would be for the best if the world considered Avalanche dead and no one around them knew of what they had done. Officially, she had gone off on a journey of self discovery at the age of fifteen, and had returned soon after Meteor destroyed Midgar. She had never joined a group called Avalanche, had never traveled on the Highwind, had never raised Chocobo's and even raced them at the Gold Saucer, had never stood on the edge of the world and laughed at the devil with her teammates-

What team? They never happened.

According to the records, Meteor was a freak happening of nature, and the Planet had repelled it- without help. Nowhere did it say that Sephiroth had been possessed by Jenova, that he had summoned the massive rock, that Black OR White Materia had existed, that Holy had ever been summoned.

Avalanche had never existed outside of Midgar. They hadn't saved the world. They had never even met.

She knew that if she ever saw any of them again, it'd have to be as if for the first time. She wouldn't be able to meet with Reeve Brannon, leader of Neo-Midgar, or with Nanaki, leader of the Canyon, and laugh and call them Cat and Red, and they wouldn't laugh back and call her Brat. If she traveled via Rocket Shipping and rode on the Highwind itself, the ships Captain wouldn't be Chief to her, but 'Sir' and 'Mr. Highwind'. And if were to meet the Captain's first mate, a stern young man with scarlet eyes, he'd introduce himself as Vitu Fairtai. She'd never met Barett Wallace of Corel, nor Tina and Kyle Stokham of Kalm. Sephiroth was just a memory from her childhood.

The name's Vincent Valentine, Cloud Strife, Tifa Lockheart and Aerith Gainsborough meant nothing to her. Aerith Gainsborough and Tifa Lockheart had died beneath the Sector Seven plate, Cloud Strife had died in Nibelheim when she was eleven, and Vincent Valentine had disappeared decades before her birth. They meant nothing to her.

Nothing.

They meant everything and she knew it. She was just supposed to forget that she knew.

A discrete cough knocked her from her thoughts. The messenger was still waiting for a response. She sighed again and waved one hand loftily. "Bring it to me." She commanded, little of her inner turmoil making it into her voice. She had a long way to go, but she was already good at taking up the cloak of responsibility that she must carry as a Lady of Wutai, daughter of Godo. She must never show weakness to those lower than herself, and must never let herself loose, no matter how much she longed to toss away the ornate robes and arrogant speech and run and fight and laugh and cry and chase the impossible dream she had shared with the others-

What others? There had never been any others. There had never been anyone else who had stood with her at the end of everything, who knew the same as she what it was like to ride the crest of a battle until hunger and pain meant nothing, until everything boiled down to blows given and taken, blows that sang like the nightingale at dusk but a thousand times sweeter. She had never looked into the face of death and laughed even as the world fell around her. She'd have to remember that.

The messenger returned, bearing a package about a foot square, and four inches thick. He set it on the table before her, and bowed before quietly leaving. She sighed before peeling the packaging tape from the box.

Whatever was inside, it was wrapped a second time, this time in brown packaging paper. She turned it over, and her breath caught in her throat. 'Hey, Brat!' was scrawled across the wrapping in black marker.

She had never been Yufaline to them. She had rarely even been Yuffie. It was always Brat, until it stopped being an insult that only Cid and Barett had used and started becoming an actual nickname that all of them had known her by. They had all had their names among themselves, a kind of code only they knew, that bound them ever tighter to each other and their mission.

There was no mission. She had to remember that. She'd never had any purpose but to be a Lady of Wutai.

She ripped off the wrapping and gasped at what she revealed. It was an album, the cover made of thick, red-brown leather. 'Memories' trailed across the front in elegant, flowing script. She opened the book to the first page.

_This album is a photographic journal of the journey of Avalanche on it's mission to save the Planet, with special emphasis placed on those events most relevant to Lady Yufaline Kisragi of Wutai, as this album belongs to her. If you who is reading this is not Yufaline Kisragi, close this book now. The contents will not interest you since, according to official records, none of it ever happened._

_Midgar, April 26th, 1724_

Her heart snagged in her throat. Reeve, she realized. Reeve, with the surveillance he'd gotten from Cait Sith. Most of the pictures would be from Reeve, but not all. Tifa, who'd had a brief obsession with the black and white film she'd picked up in a drug store. Cid, who'd always had a camera on him, who'd jokingly said that he became a pilot because he was a tourist at heart. Barett, who'd mentioned the idea of a memoir of some sort long ago and was always saving things to take back to Marlene, ticket stubs and pamphlets and tiny souvenirs.

They all had a copy, she was sure. Reeve had put them together and sent them out. He was breaking the rules - they weren't supposed to exist - but she doubted any of them would berate him for doing so.

She could forget that Avalanche never existed.

She turned the page, and found her throat strangely tight. The picture was of them, all of them, in the Station of the Gold Saucer, their arms around each other's shoulders and laughing. They looked more like a group of friends going on vacation rather than a group of warriors out to save the world. Beneath the picture was another sheet of typed paper.

_Avalanche_

_October 5th, 1722, Gold Saucer_

_Charles Andrew Strife . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Spike_

_Tifana Roseanne Lockheart . . . . . . . . . .Rose_

_Barett Joseph Wallace . . . . . . . . . . . . . Bear_

_Aerith Lee Gainsborough . . . . . . . . . . . .Daisy_

_Nanaki, Son of Seto . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Red_

_Yufaline Jana Kisragi . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Brat_

_Reeve Adrian Brannon . . . . . . . . . . . . . Cat_

_Vincent Edward Valentine . . . . . . . . . . .Vamp_

_Cidney Alan Highwind II . . . . . . . . . . . . Chief_

She stared at the list for a long moment, most of it in disbelief, as a hundred questions sprang up in her mind. She had known Tifa's middle name; it was the reason they called her Rose, but she'd never known her full first name. And Cid was actually Cidney? Cloud was _Charles?_

Where in the bloody blue hell did Reeve find her own middle name?

She kept turning pages. The pictures of the original Avalanche in their cluttered little room beneath the Seventh Heaven intrigued her, she'd of course never met Biggs, Wedge or Jessie. But the pictures from Midgar and such were few and separated by long strands of time. The photographic time line grew tighter as she went along, especially after Cait Sith had joined the group. She saw herself as the others had, wickedly bright and all too teenage for anyone's well being. There was Barett in that ridiculous sailor suit, here was Tifa giving Cloud an impromptu dance lesson, and there was the look on an inn-cooks face as Nanaki politely requested a steak, rare. A very drunk Cid dragging an equally drunk Vincent up on a karaoke stage, Cait Sith gathering a crowd and quite a lot of gil by fortune-telling, Aerith with a huge bouquet of wildflowers that she'd later decorated everyone with. Laughter and tears and pain and joy and all of them growing as close as siblings without ever knowing a lot about each other.

She barely noted the tears sliding down her cheeks. She missed them, so deeply and so completely it ached. She missed being woken an hour after dawn, missed living out of a tattered pack, missed eating from a tin can in the middle of a forest, missed having her blood spilled near-daily, missed being called Brat, missed having her life under a constant threat, missed being an untrustworthy teen among a bunch of adults, missed being more alive and aware than any other time in her life. The blood and pain and discomfort didn't matter. What mattered was that companionship, that entwining, that _camerade_ they'd all had that she'd never experience again, because it was never supposed to exist.

The final pictures, of Meteor, of a destroyed Midgar, even one of Sephiroth himself as she'd always remember him, deformed and beautiful, with one huge wing sprouting from his shoulder. Then a few blank pages at the end of the book. They weren't because of lack of pictures, she knew.

She smiled. The blank pages said that, sometime in the future, a year, two, five, sometime, there'd be another message, this time a letter stating only a place. It'd probably be a bar somewhere, someplace small and anonymous, maybe in Mideel where no one would recognize them. Someplace where they she wouldn't be Yufaline of Wutai, but would be just a Brat, having lunch with her friends, Red and Cat, Chief and Vamp, Spike and Rose and Bear. They would laugh, and talk about their new lives, and maybe Tifa would have a kid with Cloud- _Charles_ (and oh, how she'd rag on him for _that_ name, and she probably wouldn't be the only one) Maybe Marlene would be there with her daddy. Maybe Nanaki would have found a mate, somehow.

Maybe she would be able put away her robes and haughty speech and remember what it was like to stand on the edge of the earth with her friends by her side.

Maybe, for a while, Avalanche _would_ exist.


	11. Something Soft and Shiny

Someday, I may go back and put all of these in chronilogical order. Maybe.

o o o

Cloud stared at the open packages on his kitchen table, seething. He loved his friends, he really did. He would, could, and damn near did give his life for each of them, and they'd do the same for him. Despite the fact that they weren't 'supposed' to know each other, they found ways to meet and talk and laugh and interact. One fairly anonymous way was to send birthday gifts.

Cloud knew he never should have told about _that_ night. Even if he had been drunk. Even if they'd ALL been drunk. Even if Barett had told them all about he and Dyne and their strange adventure that had ended with them buried under a pile of women's lingerie. Even if Vincent, grinning uncharacteristically, had told them about a Turk mission where he'd been undercover as a woman. He never should have told them about the Purple Silk Dress.

Because it meant he got things like these. Things that he was going to burn as soon as his wife stopped snickering at him. Things that made him wish his friends were near enough to throttle.

From Reeve, a copy of the Dress itself, yards of the finest, richest violet Mideelic silk, cut to emphasize his narrow hips and to hide the width of his shoulders. From Nanaki, a lush blond wig that would frame his face just so, hiding and blending with his natural hair. From Vincent, a garnet and amethyst necklace with matching earrings, delicately elaborate and throwing reflected darts of light around the kitchen. From Barett, a pair of elegant low-heeled shoes, the same rich rose-madder color as the dress's sash and the garnets of the necklace, also cut to hide the true size of his feet. From Cid, padding to wear beneath the dress, designed to add subtle curves to his form, all lace-edged to give the appearance of lingerie if glimpsed. And from Yuffie, a flat wooden box in the Wutaian style, holding an assortment of makeup in just the right colors to enhance the overall effect.

Cloud tore his eyes from the various packages to glare at Tifa, who was unsuccessfully trying to muffle her laughter behind her hand. "I hate my life." He said flatly.

"Oh, you do not." Tifa replied, rolling her eyes. She carefully picked up the necklace, gems and delicate gold chain falling over her fingers. "This is Icicle craftsmanship, only they do chain that fine, and I think the shoes are Mideelic, they make the best shoes there-"

"I _hate_" Cloud repeated. "My _life._"

"Cloud, this stuff is gorgeous!" Tifa protested.

"You wear it!" He protested right back.

Tifa grinned. "The dress won't fit." She smirked. "Neither will the rest of it, except maybe the necklace. It was designed for _you._ Besides, they want pictures."

"What!" Cloud yelled.

Tifa held up a slip of folded paper that had been tucked into the Junese wig box. " 'We want pictures' " She read. " 'Or we will be forced to force you. Cid and Barett were very adamant about this. Red.' "

Cloud groaned into his hands. "Nuh uh, I refuse." He muttered. "I am NOT going through this again."

Tifa glared at him, her hands on her hips. "Charles Andrew," She snapped, ignoring his glare at the name. "Your friends went through a lot of trouble to put this together, not to mention spent probably thousands of gil, so the least you could do is repay them a little by posing for some pictures. Besides," She added, breaking into a wicked grin. "I had these specially made for you, and I don't want them going to waste." She held out a long, thin box towards him. Cloud took it, half-fearing to look inside and wondering how he hadn't noticed her with it before. Sighing in resignation, he pulled off the wrapping and opened the lid.

Rose-madder silk gloves, cut to just past the elbow, elegantly tapered. He looked up at Tifa, eyes narrowing. "This was all you, wasn't it?" He growled.

Tifa's grin widened. "Of course. Now, lets get you changed. Otherwise I will personally arrange for Reno and Rude to come help you out, got me?"

Cloud paled, glaring. "I still hate my life." He sulked.

A couple weeks later, each former Avalanche member received a letter. Inside each was a picture of a beautiful, pouty blonde woman in a violet dress.


	12. A Mantra

A phase that people engaged in physical battles go through, where the warrior's mind, through pain, anger, or sorrow, transcends to a new level of heightened talent and the body is able to perform techniques it was previously unable to perform. -Websters Unabridged Dictionary

Ascending to a higher level of the warrior spirit. - Zangan

Succumbing to the beast within. - Vincent Valentine

Yer body's way of tellin' ya 'Enough's fuckin' enough' - Barett Wallace

Limit Breaks.

She'd asked everyone she'd ever known what they thought they were, and had heard a different description from each. No two were ever the same, and no one understood anyone elses explanation.

Tifa

_(heard saw felt knew)_

her Limit Breaks as a litany, a mantra to give her strenght, to power her to new heights. When she was calm, when her blood didn't rush, she didn't know the mantra, the words lost to her. She could sometimes catch a glimpse, a tiny word fragment

_(-Ru- -So- -In-)_

that was barely a clue into the meaning of the mantra, far away, whispered on the breeze.

Then there were the times when she was in a battle for her life, for the Planet, times when her blood sang with adrenaline, when the air sang with blood. These times she was close to the mantra, could almost

_(see hear touch taste)_

the words, could almost know what they meant

_**(-Kick -Drive -Strike)**_

and why.

Then there the times that she rode the wave of battle to it's peak, the times when the pain and anger and sadness became the sharpest agony and the wildest rage and the deepest sorrow, the times when her heart took over her mind, when the Mantra was strong and clear

_**(BEAT RUSH SOMERSAULT WATERKICK)**_

when nothing mattered except that she

_(heard felt knew danced)_

the Mantra to it's end and nothing remained alive to oppose her

_**(METEODRIVE DOLPHIN BLOW METEOR STRIKE)**_

or her friends or the Planet and her veins sang with the spirit of every warrior before her

_**(FINAL HEAVEN)**_

and every warrior that would come after her.

Then the feeling was gone, blown out like a candle, and her enemy was dead while she still stood and her friends were cleaning themselves up, or healing, or looting the dead, or looking around with dazed eyes as they came down from their own limits. The Mantra retreated to the depths of her mind, scattering like leaves in the wind, lurking within her blood, waiting for her to rise and once again reach her limits.


	13. Shuffle

Between the two of them, they figured out how to shuffle cards.

If they wanted, they could have figured out how to shuffle as a team - each had the hand that the other lacked. But male pride kept anything so silly from entering their heads, and if it had, it had been instantly dismissed. They were too different to work so close; the lithe, smooth-talking Mideelic Turk and the bulky Corellian miner who should have been clumsy but wasn't. But they had that one thing in common, the replacement of a flesh and blood hand with one of metal, that made people stare and children point and normal tasks an issue or even a nightmare. The problem usually lay in the prosthetic being _too_ good, too natural in it's movement, so good you nearly forgot about it and went to scratch your balls and damn near castrated yourself. It prevented a lot of things, like scooping up a little girl without worrying about bruising her tender skin, or talking to a stranger without their eyes dropping to your hand every few seconds. Sure, it was great to have a claw or machine gun grafted right on your arm when something large and nasty was coming down on your head, but it made finding a good whore damn near impossible.

Another thing they had in common was cards - Poker, 21, Hearts, Solitaire if no one was around. Vincent taught Barett how to play Midgan Rat-slap, Barett taught Vincent Cheat, and they both had a secret love of Go Fish that they thought was childish. The others were amused or bemused by the odd friendship that had been struck between the two over a simple deck of playing cards and the occasional bottle of tequila. Cloud or Cid would join them some evenings, and on occasion Tifa or Cait Sith. But usually, it was just the two of them in the early evening, playing through a hand or five, their way of winding down after a hard day of blood and adrenaline.

But the first issue was shuffling the cards. Metal fingers or talons made it difficult to hold on to a deck of slippery cards, and the task was further toughened by the fact that both of them had lost their dominate hand. In fact, that issue was what had brought them together. Vincent had followed the sound of muttered cursing one evening to find Barett sitting a short way from camp, attempting to shuffle a new deck of cards and doing little more than spraying them into his lap. They had eventually spread a section of Vincent's cloak on the ground and mixed up the cards face down on it before playing a hesitant game of Poker, more testing the ground than anything. Then Barett had approached the gunman the next night about a game of Speed, and the rest was history.

At first, they had spent long minutes figuring out how to shuffle the deck without having to mix the cards in a pile on the table top and pull them together again. It was Barett who started shuffling in his lap, using his false hand to keep the cards in a neat pile on his thighs while his good hand cut the deck. Vincent had figured out how to cross his legs and prop the cards against the upper leg instead, a move that looked less silly and was more comfortable. Eventually, through much trail and error and an interesting accident that forced them to buy a new deck, they perfected the move and could get a satisfactory mix out of the cards. The bridge-and-water technique would be forever out of their grasp, but at least they could deal to a group without needing someone else to shuffle for them. And frankly, that was enough.

o o o

The result of thinking about prosthetics and cards and reading a bit too much S. King.


	14. Shopping Trip

Blame Fira Flame for this one.

o o o

He had survived having his right hand shot off. He had survived the Midgar slums. He had survived being on Shinra's most wanted list.

_They're on, I think, the second shelf. A green box. _

He had survived Cid's driving. He had survived going up against Sephiroth. He had even lived through Yuffie's attempt at cooking. He could survive this.

_Not the regular ones, look for the one's that say 'overnight'. _

He could, he really could.

_The one's with wings. _

He'd make it out of here alive, sure, but then he was going to shoot himself.

Either himself, or the punk that was sweeping the floor and looking at him funny.

Couldn't there be just one company that made the things, instead of four or five? There must've been half a dozen packages that fit the description he was given. He almost cringed when a man reached around him to snag a box off the shelf, shooting him a sympathetic look. "Daughter?" The man asked.

He nodded. "Of all th' things I never though I'd be doin'..." He started.

The man laughed. "It gets easier over the years. Go for the Wutaian brand. From what I've been told, they're more comfortable." He said, dropping the box in his cart and walking off.

Glad for some sort of confirmation, he grabbed the box off the shelf and headed towards the checkout lane. Along the way, he gave the floor-sweeping punk a glare that would wither men with more steel in their spine than a pimple-faced teen. The boy immediately decided that there was a mess to clean up in produce and took off.

Satisfied, he went through the express lane, picking up a few chocolate bars as he went. That was the other thing on the list.

_Oh, and some nice milk chocolate. It helps. _

The woman behind the counter looked at his purchases, then gave him a knowing smile before ringing them up. He felt like shooting himself again. At least no one had cracked any jokes. The metal arm probably detered them. He paid and took his bag, relieved that the little adventure was over.

He loved his daughter, but Marlene could buy her own feminine products from now on.

o o o

Someone once told me that you're not really a father until you've either talked about the Playboy mags in your son's room, or bought feminine products for your daughter.


	15. Forgiveness

Reeve raked his fingers through his hair, working the dark strands into grime-encrusted spikes. He hadn't slept in three days aside from the occasional ten minute nap, and hadn't showered in about as long. Arranging a city-wide evacuation, along with accommodation for the refugees of said evacuation, was more tiring than he'd ever imagined. At the time, he was strolling through the town of Kalm, speaking with the people he'd arranged to run things, and helping where help was needed. Somewhere, he'd lost his tie.

Grimly amused, he wondered if his mother had finally stopped spinning in her grave. If she was still around, Maria Brannon probably would have proposed that the gods had arranged the entire fiasco, from Sephiroth's birth until an hour before, when Meteor had fallen, just so that her 'smart-assed, weak-wristed son' would learn the value of a hard day's work. At the thought of Meteor, Reeve turned towards Midgar, a red-green glow on the horizon. According to the Turks, currently circling in a helicopter above the city, nearly everything had been destroyed. And good riddance, Reeve thought.

He started to turn away from the view when a bright light caught his eye. He looked back, squinting. Was that the Turks? No, Reno was flying with the spotlight on, looking for any last-minute refugees out of Midgar. This was three small lights in a row, the middle one red and the outer two white. It looked almost like the running lights on an airship-

Suddenly, Reeve's phone rang at his waist. Startled, he fumbled the thing out. "Reeve." He answered.

"Cap'n Cid's settin' us down jus' outsida town." Came Cait Sith's cheerful voice. "Better get a few beds ready, aye?"

"Aye, Cait." Reeve replied, relieved. "I'll be waiting." He clicked the phone shut and looked towards the lights again. Of course, the Highwind, or what was left of it. At least Avalanche had survived the whole mess. He quickly headed off towards the western end of town, hoping that the beds he'd asked be saved were still open.

Twenty minutes and a short argument later, Reeve was waiting just outside of Kalm, a small group with him to turn a section of highway into an impromptu runway with a few high-powered flashlights. Cid apparently knew landing lights when he saw them and set the crippled ship down with only a slight bump. A moment later a hatch on the side of the ship opened and Avalanche climbed out.

Reeve tried to tell himself he wasn't nervous. It was the first time he had met any of them, aside from Cid, and he was unsure of his welcome, traitorous as he was. Swallowing, he approached the bedraggled group. All of his carefully planned greetings were gone from his mind, and he simply held out his hand towards Cloud. "Glad to see you all made it." He said.

Cloud glanced at him, one arm around Tifa, then took his hand. "You must be Reeve." He said, giving his hand a firm shake.

"At your service." Reeve replied. "All of you." He turned and pointed towards a large, well-lit building. "The Inn has a couple rooms saved for you, and while I can't promise to the quality of the food, I do know that it's still hot." Cloud frowned and opened his mouth, but Reeve held up a hand to forestall him. "Whatever it is, it can wait until the morning. You're all exhausted, so go, before someone sneaks into your beds." Cloud gave up his reservations with a shrug and they turned towards the Inn, Cait Sith in lead. Reeve sighed and turned back to his people, issuing out orders that the Highwind was not to be touched by anyone that wasn't an Avalanche member. Confident that the ship would be warded, he turned to go back to town.

"So, you're Reeve."

Reeve started and looked up. Barett Wallace stood in his path, arms crossed, his face stern and forbidding. "Yes-"

"You're the one that took Marlene hostage." Barett continued, his eyes stormy.

Reeve swallowed again. "Um, yes," He stuttered. "She's at the Inn no-"

He never got to finish his sentence. Barett's fist lashed out, lightning quick, and to Reeve it felt as if his entire face had exploded. He yelled in pain, dropping to the ground, and felt himself hauled right back up by metal fingers twined in his shirt. He blinked past the agony and tears in his eyes to see Barett's face an inch from his own. "That was for kidnapping my daughter." The miner growled. His hand came up, fingers splayed beside Reeve's face, and the former executive closed his eyes against whatever Wallace would do next.

Instead of another blow, he felt the tingling hum of a Restore spell. He blinked as Barett set him down. "And that was for gettin' her out of Midgar before that shit hit." He continued before turning on one heel and stalking after his companions.

Reeve stared after the Corellian for a moment, gingerly feeling his nose. Aside from the blood he could feel slicking his fingers, the whole thing might've been a hallucination. I just got my face broken and healed, he thought wildly. How's that for hard work, ma?

"Mr. Brannon!" Exclaimed one of his workers, running up. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." Reeve said, waving the man off. "Really. Mr. Wallace and I just had some...unfinished business. Don't worry about it."

"If you're sure.."

"I'm sure." Reeve said reassuringly. "Make sure you report to me if anyone goes near that ship, got me?" Not even waiting for the man's affirmation, he headed back towards the town, felling surprisingly light-hearted for someone that hadn't slept in three days and had just gotten socked in the face. Something told him that at least one member of Avalanche had forgiven him for his betrayal.

o o o

I find it so damn fun to write both Barett and Reeve.

Edit: I suppose I should mention this here. Yes, I know Reeve's last name is now Tuesti, but I started writing the 'Glances' long before this was mentioned. The older Glances probably will not be changes, and in the newer ones, Reeve will still probably be Mr. Brannon, because I always forget that he actually has an official last name, and if I do remember, I can never remember how to spell it.


End file.
